Watching the Watcher
by Cardeia
Summary: What happens when the watcher is being watched by something he wants? An intense romance set by internal monologue points of view.
1. Watching the Watcher

**Disclaimer:** I do not own any of the character names, save my own original creations. I do not wish to be compensated for this work, nor do I wish to infringe on any copyrights held by any stakeholders of the movie King Arthur. This work is an original creation, based on the legend of King Arthur and his knights.

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**Scribe Notes:**

This was inspired by The Wild Woman and her short stories In the Snow. I have others coming, as her work has made my mind come alive!

I leave it to you to tell me who it is I am writing about, although I think it's fairly obvious. And don't cheat by scrolling to the bottom for the Dear Reader notes!

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**_Watching the Watcher_**

I see you across the tables, watching me.

Always, you watch me.

You want to know me.

I think you want to reach inside my soul and understand what makes me. I think you want to touch me. Your desire is what radiates out to me, through your eyes.

No-one who knows me well wants to understand the twisted thorns that are in my soul. I am dangerous to most men. I am a horror to most women. I am strange, distant, silent.

I hear the whispers. I know what they think of me.

Yet your insistence through your vigil makes me want to show you what they see. Display to you my true nature. I am a warrior. I am a glorified killing animal.

Nothing more.

Would you recoil like the rest of them when you see what I really am?

You sit each night, watching me laugh, drink... you eyes never leave me. I can feel them, even when you think I cannot see you. Like moonlight can filter through the forest, your gaze always penetrates my senses. I can see you even before I know where you are.

There is something that raises my blood, in the way you watch. The same way I do. The stillness of your body. The unflinching observant stare. You aren't loud in any way.

I like that.

You draw me in each time I sense you, in the dark. I can't ignore your presence, no matter how much I will myself to try. Always I turn to find you just where I know you will be, sitting, hands wrapped around your cup. Apple beside your plate.

Always an apple.

I think that I should someday come to you and take that apple. Do you leave it there to tempt me? Is it bait? You've watched me enough to know.

You are the temptation that drives these thoughts I now have. Thoughts that you could give me peace. You could provide me comfort. Things I don't deserve and could never have.

But I want them.

You have given me that want, watching me every night. I have cursed you in my sleep as I slip to dreams of you. You have made me desire you, you have made my body ache to touch yours.

I have never ached for anything.

Even though I have never heard your voice, I can hear you whisper my name in my dreams. I can feel the ghost of your fingers on me when I awaken.

These thoughts urge me to walk away, push you out of my mind, bar you from my senses. Keep you from getting into my soul. Though I want to show you what you ask for each night with your eyes, I want to keep you from seeing what is truly there.

The torment and the pain, the horrors that will send you running from me. I want to stop you from watching, to protect you from my soul.

I can no more stop you than I can stop the rain from falling.

You are already there, across the tables.

Watching me.

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**Dear Reader:**

I have always wanted to give Tristan a chance toshow hisinner thoughts.This seemed like an interesting idea. In one of Wild Woman's pieces, she describes Tristan right after a work, and the way it came out, it felt like someone was watching him, describing him.

So I wondered what he would think if someone did watch him. Someone that made him watch back, and really see.

Please do let me know what you think, and if I caught his essence with this short internal monologue. Thank you for reading.

_Cardeia_


	2. Silent Waiting

**Disclaimer:** I do not own any of the character names, save my own original creations. I do not wish to be compensated for this work, nor do I wish to infringe on any copyrights held by any stakeholders of the movie King Arthur. This work is an original creation, based on the legend of King Arthur and his knights.

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**Scribe Notes:**

_Sokorra Lewis:_ Yes, his mind would be such a rich place. I think his deductive reasoning and critical thinking skills would be fun to test in debate. He's a smarty-pants I bet. Made all the better that he is a bit of a loner with lots of time to do nothing but think.

_Calliann_: Hey! I am so happy that you liked it so much. Here is the second part. I don't know how long this will be, but you and Ailis-70 have convinced me to write a bit more about it.

_Annalon:_ I enjoyed getting into his head a bit, weaving in some of the well known traits about him, along with how he would sound from his mind. Was interesting to give him some contradictions of wanting something, yet never needing anything since he is such a loner.

_ElvenStar5:_ That was a long review. Loved it! I was sure everyone would pick Tristan, but I was waiting for someone to comment on any similarities that I may have inadvertantly put in, to other knights. Apples are the giveaway. Always with the apples. (grin).

_Shevaun:_ Thanks for reviewing! You hit the nail on the head with this line:

-0-  
As writers, we often sit back and watch the world. Once you sit still long enough, people don't notice you anymore. Tristan, who has been watching the world for years, must feel unerved to realise that someone is finally watching him back.  
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Yes. I wanted to show that by her watching him, and unnerving him a bit, he is thinking and feeling new and different things. I have always tried to create a believable world for my characters. I really hope that worked in Cerys at Knight, since it was my first foray. I sometimes feel it got a bit "fantasy-ish", but I tried. Not a history major or anything ,so I am sure there are tons of mistakes. (grin)

_Ailis-70:_ YAY! I am so glad it resonated with you, and got your mind a' goin'. i wrote it hoping it would. This second chapter is because of you, and Calliann thinking that it could become a short story. But mostly because you want to know who she is. And yes, it is a she. I know this is going to make you go ACK! when you finish the chapter, but I have others planned so don't worry.

and remember, Tristan needs to be pushed into action, or a reaction... sometimes. So, think on that when you read this, and I know you will have some ideas for the next chapter. Share them with me! This is a product of your nudging, so nudge some more!

_op:_ Hey! thanks! Here is another chapter in this small story. I hope you enjoy it. Lancelot will always be my favorite, but I find the mind of this character very interesting. it makes him sexy, that mind. The feral nature...

_Wanderer of the Roads:_ Thank you! I am glad you have enjoyed it. I read quite a few stories on this website without reviewing (I have not enough time in the day I fear so I have to choose very carefully) but I wanted to tell you that I think your story Destined to Be is very much fun. Heather and Claudia are quite a pair! Your english is wonderful, and its great to know I have a reader all the way in Hong Kong! That's quite a ways from Canada. (grin).

_MissBubbles:_ I can never review as much as I would like. It's tough to review all you would want to, you would never do anything else! And I refuse to give one line reviews. So absent reviewer guilt aside, than you for reviewing! I am glad you thought I caught his thought pattern well with this, it was an intriguing journey to try and see through his eyes.

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**2 - _Silent Waiting_**

Tonight I am not where I am supposed to be.

I am testing him.

I sit on a rock by the washing pool, the moonlight bathing the ripples in white light, the surface glittering. Like the jewels that adorn our Queen's neck, the ripples sparkle and dance as the wa­ter moves about. I think of the happy laughter and shrieking the children bounce off the trees when they swim here, and the way the women sing when the come to scrub the clothing on the rocks I now sit upon. My toes curl over the edge of one such rock, pushing at dried soap, caked to the edge. This is the best rock for removing stains.

This place is silent now, compared to the happy burble of daylight.

I have dipped my toe into the water. It feels refreshing. I am tempted to remove my clothing and dive, to feel the coolness against my skin, to relieve the hot damp stickiness that the day has brought.

I know I won't hear him come, if he does. He's a scout. He knows how to move silently, like a ghost. I am anticipating his coming, I know he watched me walk out towards here, laundry slung over my shoulder, soap in my hand. I could feel his eyes on me.

I always know when he watches me; I can feel his gaze even before I know where he is. I wonder if I will feel him coming, if he does.

Every night I catch his eye, every night he scans the tables, looking for me when he walks into the hall. And when he finds me, his body relaxes, only slightly. He spends his evening with the men, drinking... sometimes laughing... always eating an apple.

I feed the one I keep by my plate to his horse, each night before retiring to my rooms.

I watch him like his hawk watches for mice from the rafters of the stable. He is intriguing, mys­terious. I find myself attracted to his feral nature. I am drawn to his primal posture, the way he walks. Confident, fierce, strong, like a predator. It excites me, for a reason I cannot understand.

He is dangerous.

I like that.

My dreams of him are always silent. He comes to me, his eyes flashing heat, his hands hard and rough, calloused across my skin. He takes me, his need overwhelming both of us, in this mating dance of passion, need and desire. I always awake with a throbbing need for him, my body slicked in sweat.

My thoughts of him during the day make me blush. Always I wonder what it would be like to push my hands against his chest, feel his heart beat against my palm. To push the hair from his eyes. To run my fingers through its haphazard length. Re-braid his warrior lock, as is a lover's right.

I have never thought of a man this way before. Even now, sitting in silence by the pool, I feel flushed, my abdomen warming, my skin covered in bumps like a freshly plucked goose.

I want him.

The woman all talk of him as if he is wounded in the mind. They say he is too silent, too distant. They are all afraid of him, and pass to the other side of the alleyways when he walks past.

They say he likes to kill.

I see something more in his eyes, when he looks back at me, catches me. I see him wanting to be free, wanting to shout, laugh, sing. He is intelligent. I can see him wanting to learn, under­stand the world around him.

I see the man inside the animal everyone says is too far gone to be human anymore.

I want to see into his soul, to see what is there. I want to understand what makes him so quiet, so withdrawn, so fierce. I know that he does not like to be feared, but knows that he is simply by what he has been forced to do for so long.

All the men are this way, in some form. Haunted by the ones they have killed in these long years together. It changes a man, makes them hard. Makes them build walls of stone around them­selves. To care means having a weakness, one that cannot be afforded when staring down an enemy on the field of battle.

I know, I have listened to so many tell me their thoughts. Tell me what they want. So many of them dead now.

He has never spoken to me. Not with his voice, at least.

My thoughts are tumbling over me, much like the waterfall at the edge of the pond. Its soft noise is comforting. The only noise echoing in this clearing. I long to bathe underneath it, swim lan­guidly in the swirling pool out in front of the falling water. Clear my head of the sad thoughts now entering it, about all of the friends I have lost.

I know not if he will come.

But I am waiting.

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**Dear Reader:**

And thus here we go with the other side of this contest. Have I answered any questions about her, or created more? I hope more! I want to try and show a different side of two people, the complete internal side that makes you go "Hmmm" and understand what makes someone tick. Moreso than action, I find these internal monologues so much fin to write, and such a stretch for my skills to really create something that sounds believable and rhythmic. We all think in rhythmns, and sometimes writing that same rhythmn can be difficult.

Tristan will always be aconglomeration ofevery otherTristan-lovers ideas,so let me know what you think of this girl, and we can build her character the same way. I am sure there is but a glimpse of her, barely enough to go on, but tell me what you think she would look like, what her position in life is. Who is she? What are your hypotheses.

Think of it as a writing exercise to help you develop your own characters.

I am intrigued to find out your thoughts, for they drive mine!

Thank you for reading,

_Cardeia_


	3. Follower

**Disclaimer:** I do not own any of the character names, save my own original creations. I do not wish to be compensated for this work, nor do I wish to infringe on any copyrights held by any stakeholders of the movie King Arthur. This work is an original creation, based on the legend of King Arthur and his knights.

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**Scribe Notes:**

_Calliann:_ Here is the next one for you. I like how you see her. All interesting ways to take this. I have switched to the same type of POV as hers, instead of him talking to her directly in his mind, he is watching her and we are in his mind in a different way. I hope it does not disrupt the flow, and we are still able to get his essence. Let me know.

_ElvenStar5:_ I am so very pleased at all the questions that I have raised for you. that is the whole point of this exercise. To get me thinking, to get you thinking... to nudge the pen forward for all concerned. You see the point I make of him wanting to understand the world around him. As humans, we never stop learning and he knows this.

He builds walls because he is forced to. If someone was to accept him for who he is, they could get in the "gate" on his wall. The women are all afraid of him, except this girl, who watches him. She isn't afraid. She is intrigued, that he can gather from her watching of him. This is new.

_Ailis-70_: She isn't a prostitute. Melosine did that one very well in Memories. I haven't decided what she will be yet, still taking advisement from my readers. (wink)

You caught the testing, and voila you spurred my thoughts for this chapter and I hope you like it. He does need to be nudged into action when it comes to interaction with people. Give him a life/death situation and he's all reaction, but give him something where he has to think about what to say, do, or how to act and he really does need that nudge now and again, otherwise he would sit and observe long past the point. He is, at heart, a people watcher. He would LOVE malls I think. To just sit on a bench and watch the people go by. If he can stand the crowds, that is (wink).

and you got my mind going for this chapter with another comment about swimming. Damn you! (grin)

_Wanderer of the Roads:_ Thank you! Love that Dust Devils has got your mind going. I see such an improvement in your writing from when I first came across your stories. You are really starting to get a good cadence down between your discription and dialogue. Keep it up! I really liked Evening in Venice.

_hunting4max_: It is**extremely** difficult, and I wanted to tackle it to see if I could pull it off. I really hope I have with this next chapter. It takes awhile to get the direction when you cut between two minds like that. Easier in third person to twist between points of view, but when its first person, it's tough to keep the characters seperate and have different tones to provide uniqueness.

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**_3 - Follower_**

Her clothes are piled on a rock. She is in the water.

I have no idea why I am here. I saw her walk this way, and when she did not come to the tavern, I simply left to come here. The ritual of her watching me, our silent conversations with our eyes, was broken this evening.

It made me restless.

I know not if she sees me, she is humming a soft, sweet tune, lieing on her back. Her hands com­ing out of the water at intervals to paddle herself further out. The splashing and humming against the soft sounds of the waterfall are so loud, compared to the silence of night that has descended in the clearing.

I crouch down at the edge, in the trees. I wish not to disrupt her, but my urges play the scene differently in my head. The desire to swim, dive into the cool water and tread my way to her is strong. My manhood tells me what it thinks of her naked form in the water, the moonlight casting off wet skin as she moves about. My entire body is screaming at me to move, yet I am still crouching.

My control is still winning this fight.

Like an otter, she flips over and dives under the surface, coming up for air near the waterfall. She wipes at her face, gasping in short breaths as she clears her water-soaked hair from her eyes, her shoulders bobbing out of the water as she swims like a frog towards the falling water.

She is a good swimmer.

I am seeing her for the first time, this way. She is beautiful this way.

My heart thuds madly in my chest, and I can feel the blood coursing through my veins as I watch her stand under the waterfall, all of her visible above the surface, her hands playing in the falling beads, interrupting the steady stream. I can make out her form through the curtain. Her angular and passionate face, the high breasts, the round hips ... her whole body lithe, yet soft.

It is too much.

For some reason, I look away. If I continue to look I may not be able to control my reaction anymore.

She has entranced me, and yet I look away. She has caught my interest enough to pull me away from a night of drinking, and I look away. I curse myself in my mind for being a coward. I have never looked away from a woman in my life, like this.

I have never looked away from anything.

I force my eyes back. I want to learn about her, see her, absorb her. I steel myself the same way I do when facing an enemy in battle. Stare into their eyes; force them to look into you as you spill their lifeblood on the ground. Watch the soul ebb out of them as they fall to the blade. It is the only way you can face what you are, what you do. Look away and it will consume you.

I wonder if this is what men feel like when they die, their control slowlyleaving as their life flows away from them. The loss of ability to choose as they hit the ground, gasping for air.

I am gasping for air in another way now. I must not let this consume me. I have never had a woman affect me so.

She settles herself into the water just outside the waterfall. It would be warmer there, churning, massaging her skin. I have spent many hours there, soaking in the white frothed bub­bles, making tired skin new, healing bruises, wounds. I wonder how it affects her skin, com­pared to my weathered and beaten hide.

I stand, unable to crouch any longer. My tired legs and joints creak, sending noise out into the clear night air. I stop halfway up, waiting for her to hear them, their popping loud in my ears. My heart races abnormally.

I have never felt this way before, hiding.

Of course she won't. She is in the waterfall. I am perplexed at my lack of whits suddenly. But again, as I watch her lean her head back, exposing her neck and dipping her hair into the water, I force myself not to look away. She is running her hands over her breasts, over her nipples, down into the water. Her eyes are closed, her lips parted. I hear a soft moan echo out of her, above the hiss of the waterfall.

My manhood prods the inside of my leggings, emptying rational thought from my head. It is too much too look away, yet it is too much to keep watching.

My mind has ceased functioning, my primal needs taking over.

I straighten fully and walk into the clearing towards her clothing. She has not seen me yet. I look down to the clothing on the rock. I am pulling my tunic up over my head when my hands still, my mind coming back to me with the recognition of what I am seeing, sitting on top of her clothing.

An apple.

Always an apple.

I raise my eyes again to her, and I know now she has seen me, I could hear her movements still as I reached the edge. Across the pond, our eyes meet. She is calmly watching me, her eyes glit­tering in the moonlight. She has not moved. I am sensing a test, and I look down at the apple. My blood stills a bit, my control returning.

I drop my tunic back into place.

She is licking her lips nervously from the corner of my eye, wiping more hair out of her face with a hand. She is waiting to see what I will do. If I pick up the apple, have I accepted her invitation? If I leave it...

I cannot leave it.

My legs are now rooted as they were before, at the edge of the clearing, struck into the ground like tree trunks. We stare at each other over the distance, and I grasp the apple as my eyes stay with her. I see her smile slowly, a look of triumph on her face.

Every fibre of my body is screaming to go to her, caress her body as the bubbles from the waterfall are... take her... control her. My mind is holding me back. My will is steeled again, and I am able to control it.

I must control it.

I am still not far off diving into the water to force myself upon her.

I realize, suddenly, that I have done exactly as she had planned. Her eyes are dancing over me, her smile evidence that I have given her what she wanted.

I decide that this is a game. And I have begun playing.

I bite into the apple, letting the juices run down my chin into my beard. I can almost feel her satisfaction with mine, as I chew slowly, our eyes never leaving one another.

With an effort monumental enough to kill a thousand Saxons, I turn to leave the clearing, set­ting the apple core back onto her clothing, from the exact spot she left it there, for me.

Perhaps she will follow me this time.

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**Dear Reader:**

As they might say "The die is cast" or "The gauntlet has been drawn". Did this work? Did Tristan taking the apple and eating it work as a challenge, a test? Did this new POV of internal monologue work better or worse from what the first chatper was?

Oh my , let me know, it's I who has the questions this night! I was really happy with this chapter and I hope it fits in with what I already have here. I'm not sure. But I know it has really got my mind whirling for the next chapter. But I have as many jumbling out of my head onto paper for DustDevils. Ah! I may not sleep tonight...

But I do hope that your sleep is sweet, and your dreams are full of your own secret desire takingthe apple and biting into it with abandon.

_Cardeia_


	4. Challenge and Gift

**Disclaimer:** I do not own any of the character names, save my own original creations. I do not wish to be compensated for this work, nor do I wish to infringe on any copyrights held by any stakeholders of the movie King Arthur. This work is an original creation, based on the legend of King Arthur and his knights.

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**Scribe Notes:**

_Calliann:_ Here is your update, and I really hope you like it! More clues... more excitement! I am so glad you like it.

_Alis-70:_ Boo! Snuck this one in for ya to read when you get up tomorrow. More hints on what/who she is. Yes, willpower is a strong trait he has, and she is testing it. She knows. He is also intelligent, she knows this as well, and that he has accepted her "challenge" says interesting things about how his mind works, and how she perceives drawing him out. This chapter will give you an indication that she caught him in a moment of being a man, not an animal, and now...

I hope you like it. I eagerly await your ideas, and your input.

_Melosine:_ Hmm... your idea that he may be suspicious is a good one.

But I also see something else more playful in this. She is drawing him out. Making him do things he normally would not do. Men, when faced with such things, can react out of character. (Example: Tristan and the baby crow?) I see her wanting him to come to her, yes, but knowing eventually it may be her, since he has the patience of a mountain. She knows how intelligent he is, and by his eating the apple, she knows he understands her challenge. I have always seen a humourous undertone in Tristan, his dry comments and stone face speak to me of a humour that rides high above that of Bors' crudeness or Gawain's jesterish temperment. Dry like toast, but humour nonetheless. He takes the apple on her clothing for what it is... a gesture meant to push him, and he wants to push right back, because of how she makes him feel when she watches him. What it makes him want.

Flirting at its heart.

So forthem to take up the challenge as it happens here, in this chapter, seems right for me. I hope you like it, and I really look forward to your comments.

_hunting4max_: Its so hard! thats why the updates are sporadic. The next chapter will hit me quite suddenly when I am in the right frame of mind. I have to centre myself with that character, be it Tristan or her, and think about reactions, think about mindset... and try to write so that it sounds right. Often I see one or the other sneak in and I really have to work the angles to make it read right. I am glad you think it works! This is a challenge for me to write this way and I am doing my best to meet it.

_Sokorra Lewis:_ Follows, but in a different way. And the ante is upped. I hope you enjoy the enxt act in this "mini-movie". Very cool that you think of it that way.

_The Freakin' Hot One:_ Here you go! The next chapter! Not going to find out what happens all at once, but I hope you enjoy the development.

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**4 - _Challenge and Gift_**

It has been three days since he followed me to the pond. Three nights since he saw me under the waterfall, and now the fourth morning is upon me as I don my clothing to begin the day.

How I wanted him to join me when I saw him standing at the edge of the water. I had been lost in fantasy of him, held in the swirling eddy, and suddenly he was there, undressing. Had he seen me? I held myself still, waiting for him to look over, see my clothing, hear the splashing of my body in the water.

But he stopped suddenly, and as our eyes met, he had bent down towards the rock, slowly.

He took the apple.

I followed the juices dripping down his chin, onto his tunic. I relished how his hand cupped the fruit as his teeth bit into its flesh hungrily. He came alive as he chewed. I could not look away. His eyes held me riveted.

I had left it there, for him.

I had not realized then how excited that one act could make me. I imagined my skin was the apple, and hoped he could not see my heated face from where he was, beside my clothing. I could feel my blood boiling in the cool water. It was all I could do not to swim to him.

But I wanted to watch his response, and stayed in the swirling waters.

Somehow he had known the apple was for him.

The game he started in leaving the core on my clothing gave my thoughts wings. The challenge had been set, without one word spoken.

For three nights now I have left an apple at the door to his quarters, instead of feeding his horse before I go to mine.

And every morning, an apple core waits for me when I step outside, placed neatly on the edge of my doorstep. Not in so long have I laughed in greeting the day, a new excitement of what it might bring, in a simple browned apple core.

He is playing such an interesting game. I can't help but want to play along with him.

I know he is watching were I go, what I do. I can feel his eyes on me when I am walking, when I am working. Always when I turn around, he isn't there. But I know he is watching. I go about my day, waiting to see him in the comings and goings, but the only time I feel him fully both with sight and senses is at night, in the tavern.

He is a scout. This does not surprise me in the least.

I should just walk to him, speak to him, but somehow, I hold back. This game we play is teach­ing me more about him than one night of conversation over cups ever could. The intensity of my desire increases with each day.

It is making me want to understand him more, learn the key to unlock his soul, and yet I do not go to him. I want him to come to me, but I know that he has a patience unequaled to mine.

We are both tugging on either side of a string, to see who will break it first. I wonder at when the threads will snap, and send me tumbling to him.

Last night, he was not in the tavern.

After watching his companions drink and sport, their loud voices carrying over the entire area, I silently left. I had no interest. Their table held nothing without his calm presence to anchor my eyes and my thoughts.

As always, I stopped and left his apple on his doorstep. Earlier than normal, and I stayed a mo­ment, staring at his door. The want to see the other side rooting my feet in place until I heard footsteps in the alleyway behind me.

This morning, under his apple core, there is something else.

I pick up the remains of the fruit, a brief thrill coursing through me, knowing his lips have touched it, and for the briefest of moments, I touch the core to mine, to feel the impression his teeth leave in the air-browned flesh, to be closer to him.

This is ritual now.

My eyes dart to the slip of cloth that was rested underneath it. It is soft in my fingers as I grasp it, its folds smooth. I touch it to my cheek. Deerskin. Not cloth. Tanned and well worn.

I notice it is bound by a long, thin strip of leather. I tilt my head, then look up around me. Is he watching? I can feel the hair on the back of my neck rising. I dart my eyes around the area out­side my door. My skin has prickled with bumps.

There is no one there, yet I can feel him.

My fingers untie the small knot in the leather, ever wary that he may indeed have some spot from which he is silently sitting, watching me unfold his gift, the leather strip dangling from my shaking hand, the apple core back on the doorstep, momentarily forgotten. It is folded many times, and I can feel a centre bump growing more solid with each unfolding. The last side is peeled away and I can feel my heart stop, my stomach flip of its own accord.

An elf bolt, perfect in every way.

Again I look up, darting eyes quickly. Such a gift is not to be taken lightly. A rare find, carried for luck, cannot be dismissed. I trace its edge with my finger, the intricate detail of the point, the flash of the flint as the morning sun hits it from between the buildings.

It is beautiful, and precious.

My eye catches the ends of the leather strip, hanging from my fingers, and I suddenly under­stand. I knot the middle of the rope around the edges of his gift, and fasten it around my neck, my hand smoothing it to my chest as it settles just above my breast bone.

I hope that from wherever he is watching me, he can see me smile. I glance down at the deerskin, and feel the softness in my hands, running my fingers over it. I look for words, letters, some marking to tell me it is his.

I don't expect any. Military men, unless ranked, cannot read, nor write.

I smile as I think on that. Long have I sat by beds, with bound lambskin open in my lap, reading stories of far away lands as they drift to sleep. Soldier, knight, cavalry, general... Man, or boy. All are lulled, their pains taken away, to dream of the story I speak by soft voice and flickering candle.

I wonder, briefly, if he would enjoy those stories. My eyes close, the soft material against my cheek again. I imagine his head in my lap, my hands running through his hair, over his face, quietly reading him stories, his eyes closed and soft, at peace the way I know he wants.

The peace I long to give him, to show him that I see more than animal. I see man.

My eyes flutter open and again I peer down to the deerskin in my hands. I fold it further, and stop, my eyes catching what I was searching for at last.

A symbol.

It is not Latin, nor is it Roman. I know not what it is. It is simple, almost crude. I trace it with my finger, just as I did the elf bolt when in my hand.

Two softly curving marks, like claws.

I close my hands around the deerskin and press it to my chest, my heart beating so hard I can hear it outside my body, my eyes now searching frantically around me for any sign that he is there. I step out over my threshold and peer down the alleyway.

There is no one.

I take a deep breath and calm my nerves, jumping at what is stained onto the deerskin. Deep blue, edges sharp, painted by hand.

Two softly curving marks, like claws.

Like tattoos, on skin.

* * *

**Dear Reader:**

The idea that she leaves apples for him somewhere and he gives her back cores was too funny not to try it. I think it works. But now, we see something else come into it. Something so precious to the finder as an elf-bolt, being given to another, is, from some stories I have read, a gift of highest regard. A gift that provides the wearer with protection and luck.

Why did he give it to her? Why did he leave it with the apple core instead of finding her? Or did hewatch her as she wound the leather and hung it around her neck? Any more clues on who she is? Why do you think there is a replica of his tattoo on the deerskin?I hope I have made these questions come to your mind, and many more!

I got this idea while mucking stalls today, no idea how, but as soon as I was done I raced to the house and wrote it. I hope you like the next part of this romance, and even though the udpates are sparse, know that your comments do give me measure to think on this story every day. It is a very difficult story for me to write, and sometimes takes me time to get the right feel to continue.

If wishes were elf-bolts, we would all have such a prized gift from our loved ones adorning our bodies. Be it jewelry, attoo, or love bite.

_Cardeia_


	5. Gesture and Prayer

**Disclaimer:** I do not own any of the character names, save my own original creations. I do not wish to be compensated for this work, nor do I wish to infringe on any copyrights held by any stakeholders of the movie King Arthur. This work is an original creation, based on the legend of King Arthur and his knights.

* * *

**Scribe Notes:**

_All:_ And again the inspiration strikes for this work. Today I was at home with a massive headache that would kill an elephant and it just sprung itself on me. I know I do not update this as often as you would like. Please forgive my gap between chapters.

_Calliann:_ Interesting. You know, since I live in the middle of nowhere I never watched Buffy or Angel or any of those shows. Who was the girl who played Buffy, it wasn't the same girl from the movie was it? We get two TV stations here. That's it. I don't watch much TV at all really. Just a couple of shows (Grey's Anatomy... Patrick Dempsey... ohhhh... CSI Las Vegas... Nick...ohhhh...)

You are right in part of your analysis of who she is, but I won't tell you which part because I think I answered it in this chapter. (wink)

_Ailis-70:_ Memories are important to remember! And I am glad I struck a cord with this! Why did he give it to her? I don't think he knows. You have some great ideas about her, and yes, some are right bang on! Yes they had nurses, and Hospices, but they may not have had those things in a frontier area like Britain. believe it or not, medical care for Roman military was quite advanced for its time! One of hte books I have shows some instruments recovered at Housteads that look really similar to what we use today for some things... like calipers, tongs... speculums... very cool stuff.

It is meant to be hot, sexually charged and romantic to the point of insanity. I hope this chapter provides more fodder for this. I think this chapter sees our Scout thinking about... ohh won't ruin it, go read! Let me know! (wink)

_Melosine:_ Words... words for him are measured in quality, not quantity. So... I hope you get why I did this chapter the way I did (wink). Enjoy, and I hope it was tense enough to continue the escalation of excitement!

_Makayla:_ Thanks! Glad you like it! Here is the next installment for you.

* * *

**_5 - Gesture and Prayer_**

I can see my gift flashing in the sunlight.

She walks, carrying a load of herbs from the gardens, their stems and leaves bouncing slowly as she swings the arm basket in her stride. Her head is bent, her step light, and she lifts her hand to touch where it sits, biting her lip.

My gift, worn as I hoped it would be. She is intelligent to discover its purpose so quickly.

I like that.

My fingers are twitching to feel the skin where it lays, at the join of her neck and chest, where her pulse would beat. My lips want to taste the softness of that skin. It is enough to make me mount and ride away now, and not wait for the others, and my horse shifts beside me as he sens­es the tension in my body.

My mind has become fuzzy with this desire, what she makes me feel inside. I do not understand what it is I want from her. I still do not understand fully why I left the gift. A trinket long carried in my pocket.

For luck it was used. Now...

I desire her; I know this, yet... I have never craved just for a woman's touch, for a simple em­brace. Nothing before equals this, not even the lust brought on by ale and a loose woman can equal this driving need I feel for her. Brought on at the edge of the pool, and since then, never fully abating.

I yearn to show her who I am, to bring her to me, to mate with her... feel her flesh, taste her...

Hold her.

It must be from her incessant watching, her searching of my mind when our eyes meet. From her blatant baiting of me with apples. Her delicate frame... Images of her body in the pool echo through my head and I blink to escape them. It will do no good to me now to think on such things, yet she has haunted my thoughts day and night since then.

I have had little sleep, and with eventual rest comes dreams, so much more vivid.

I know not how much longer I can keep this charade, waiting for her to come to me. I may bend, and let her win. But in the winning, what would she want? I know not if she would have me. I know she has heard the women talk.

Her eyes, always watching, have spoken of desire. Am I some fantasy that will remain so in her mind until such time she would run from the reality of who I am?

I am an animal to them, and perhaps to her. A killer. I have frightened so many away, I have steeled myself to my solitude for years on end, fully understanding that who I am cannot be changed, and what that means.

This has come with acceptance, and I have relished the quiet and solitude it brings me. I live simply, I look for a good death, I fight, I drink, I breathe. My training has given me this life, my mind has reconciled it, yet for some reason, my heart, long dormant, has roared to life with the yearning for something more.

For the first time in my life, I wish to be other than what I am, even if only briefly, so that I could know her touch. To be other than this monster who fights and kills with no remorse.

This woman, her eyes watching me, has brought this on and I curse her for it.

I look down from my vantage and gather my packs to heft onto my saddle. I ride this afternoon, I cannot be distracted by thoughts of a woman, no matter how haunting she has become to my world, no matter how she tests my patience, will, and control over my desires.

I have followed her, watched her when she found my gift under the apple core, fought the urge to go to her when she found my mark on the wrapping. She recognized it, as I expected she would.

I wonder if she sees me as I lurk, make excuses to be in the same areas as she is. She seems unaware, yet always looking about her, touching the gift, then continuing.

Each night when I find my bed, always an apple waits for me. This game she wants me to play I gladly engage in, and yet... the idea of opening the door and stepping into her rooms when I leave the core is harder to resist with each passing morning. Sometimes I can hear her stirring, her humming, the soft, sweet tune the same as when she was swimming in the pool. I do not recognize it, yet I am lulled by it. To hear her hum that music, soft in my ear...

Just this morning I pressed my hand to her door, wanting to push it open, the wood cold against my palm. Only when the sound of another door further down came to my ears did I turn away.

I blink and shake my head. Madness has consumed me! I bite the inside of my cheek to will calm. I must have control. As I suck slowly on the new wound, tasting the salty tang of blood, I realize that I will not be here this night to find my apple.

She has looked up and has seen me. I sensed her eyes on me, and I meet them, my hand on my packs, stilling as we watch each other across the yard.

Her basket empty, she is returning to the gardens for more. I cannot look away, yet I see her eyes, watching me calmly as turn then to buckle my scabbard across my back. The weight of my sword across my chest draws the sensation to ride, to be away in my bones, and I twitch to be off, gal­loping. She blinks once, and puts her hand to the gift. She grabs it silently, fisting it, and then quickly shuffles away, her head down.

With a growl, I mount up, swinging my leg over my horse with a jerk that makes him jump. I should not take out my frustrations on him and I sit for a moment, calming my jumping muscles, quieting my horse. This is of my own doing, my own mind playing idly with my de­sires.

But I cannot stop it.

She knows I am leaving, and what that might bring. She has seen it so many times before. I find it strange that I would find a reason to worry, as I sit here and wait for the call to ride out. I have never needed to worry anyone other than myself about my fate.

I stare up at the sky, and then around me to the activity of my companions. The day is clear, cool, and ideal for our ride. My hawk will be waiting outside the fort walls, eager to fly.

My horse shifts again, and I look down.

She is standing at his side. I marvel at how I did not sense her approach, lost in my thoughts.

Foam from his mouth tells me he is now chewing on an apple, the sweet smell of its juices waft­ing to my nose. He shakes his head, and small drops of foam and bits of fruit make their way to the ground. I swivel my eyes to her as a hand comes out to his nose, petting softly.

My warhorse, who has crushed skulls with his teeth, caved chests with his hooves, closes an eye and sighs like an old woman at her touch, cocking a hip.

No woman has ever done this before, and I cannot tear my eyes away from her. Again I feel the battle in my body to keep control. Her eyes, her hair, her skin, the flash of the gift at her throat. I drink in every part of her.

She is holding three apples in her other outstretched hand, towards me. Her gaze unwavering, her eyes not blinking. Her hand steady. Her fingers curled around them, the nails dirty from har­vesting herbs in the gardens.

I can see her stance, straight, her shoulders back. She is proud, brave.

I like that.

A jolt of energy runs through me at the thought of her courage, her flaunting by this move in front of other eyes. Before, the game was for us alone, and now...

I can feel other eyes on us, in the centre of the yard, watching, wondering. Who is this woman who has approached the animal? Out of the corner of my eye I see a kitchen woman with her hand on her mouth, her apron up with it. I see others stopped, staring.

Is it so strange that a woman would approach me so? Even the whores do not do so anymore, that has not happened in some time, the gossip of this place causing even them to stay well away from my invitations.

But yet she stands here, with apples outstretched towards me, another move in this game we play with one another.

My horse obviously knows her; he is nuzzling her skirts for more sweets.

She softly shakes the apples at me, stepping closer. I am clenching my reins, watching her lips moistened by her tongue. I am rooted where I sit. Never have we been this close to one another, and mixed with the smell of crunched fruit is her smell. Of herbs, and earth, and...

I breathe in. I want to remember the way she smells. I reach down, and she pushes the apples into my hand, stepping back, her cheeks flushing suddenly to a fresh pink, like a sunset across the sky, slowly deepening as the sun sinks to rest.

A brief touch of our fingers, and I feel burned through my leather gloves.

I heft the apples, now clenched in my own hand much the same way. I bring them to my nose, breathing in their freshness, out eyes still not broken from the gaze we are sharing. Time has not inched forward, and there is no sound except for my horses soft snorting, jingling his bit, and my own heart beating. She had bitten her lip.

I cannot form words. She has not spoken, and out silent stare seems to speak more than they would matter.

She is not afraid of who I am.

A call out to ride makes her look up and away, her hair swinging back and into the breeze, and her eyes dulling, the moment broken. I take this moment to place the apples in my pack, and then turn my horse from her, my legs squeezing his sides.

A welling of energy comes from within my stomach, and I want to bear my teeth in happiness, slap at my horses flanks and gallop off to scream into the trees, out across the land. I have never felt this before, and I am confused at its meaning. I bite back the urge to yell and spur him forward.

One thought repeats itself through my mind, drumming as fast as I wish my horses hooves to do right at this moment.

She is not afraid... She is not afraid of me.

I turn my head one more time as we ride out the gate towards the road, but she is already gone from the yard.

Yet I can feel her eyes on me.

Watching.

For the first time since coming to this place, so many years ago, I do not send my ritual prayer for a good death as I ride out the gates, my horse dancing, eager to gallop, my hawk, already crying out, her own eagerness apparent in her circling above us.

Instead, I send a prayer that I will return to her.

* * *

**Dear Reader:**

Such muddling of the brain our poor scout has! This woman, their game... could he be feeling something he has never felt before? More than passing lust, more than the need for release... more than just to live?

And yet... they have never spoken, and just barely touched. But... She wears his gift, they flirt in this game of apples...

A connection deeper than two humans passing is made with this, and I hope I have portrayed this well. And I sincerely hope you are enjoying the slow burn of this story, for our Scout does nothing that is not measured first. And she does not leap blindly.

So bear with me and revel in the tension! Thank you for your continued reading.

_Cardeia_


	6. Memory

**Disclaimer:** I do not own any of the character names, save my own original creations. I do not wish to be compensated for this work, nor do I wish to infringe on any copyrights held by any stakeholders of the movie King Arthur. This work is an original creation, based on the legend of King Arthur and his knights.

* * *

**5 - _Memory_**

When he returns, I know not what I will do.

Will I run to him? Will I give him an apple? Will he return at all? I long for his presence, the emptiness of not feeling his eyes on me brings me to restlessness.

Knowing what I know now, I am even moreso anxious. The memories given back to me have given my head so much to think on, that it whirls about like a dragonfly on the hunt for blood bugs in the late afternoon breeze.

I have waited for his return each night on the walls, standing, watching the sun slowly fall below the horizon, gaze on the road that would be their path home. This is where I find myself yet again on this evening. It is clear, and warm. The stars are just showing themselves in the pink sky, the moon coming out to watch the land enter into slumber.

It has been over a month, an no word, no dispatch and no sign.

Life here must move forward, and my duties give me distraction. The tavern is empty without him, his eyes, his presence. I eat in my rooms now, slowly filling the time with books, preparing tinctures and decoctions for use in the long winters, the sickness rampant in close quarters al­ways proving to stretch supplies.

My arms are weary from spending hours with a mortar and pestle in my hands. It is the only diversion I have from the images of him, the desire flitting through my body as I close my eyes and see him, his eyes watching me from across the tables.

Many times the rythmnic scraping has lulled my thoughts. I have pulverized herbs to a paste as I held the image of him, and how he looked at me when I handed him the apples.

Gratitude and wonder that I would do such a thing. Our eyes locked and I felt the radiating of his soul to me, the pain it bears, and the resistance he cannot leave behind.

Both of us aware of all eyes turning in our direction.

Would it be so strange for a woman to approach him like that?

It seems so.

Since then, some of the women have asked me if I am his lover. I shake my head and move on. Lover? Only in my imaginations.

For it to be reality, such dreams haunt me, both waking and asleep. But I could not tell them this, so I simply shake my head. The cluck their tongues, I think half of them do not believe me. Why else would I give him the apples?

Could I love him?

I have yet to speak to him. How can love spring from this game we play? My hand always as­cends unconciously to his gift as I think these thoughts. It is my idleness making me think so, and in the past month, as I found myself lost in these thoughts, I doubled my work.

I think it possible, but I cannot know until we again can meet, his return bringing his eyes back to me, his calming presence. Then the next play in this game can reveal itself.

So every night I wait for him until it is too dark, and the watchmen come to light the torches.

Voices echo up to me in whispers when I pass. How can he care for another? He is an animal, not capable of emotion required to be a friend or proper lover. He cares for only himself, his horse, his hawk, and the kill. They say this, fear of an unknown coating their voices with venom.

They all look askance at me now, wondering if I am a killer lover, if I too am mad. I have been given an appreciation for how he must feel, gawked at so. I think these people gossip too much, and stay away from the kitchens unless hungry, lest I end up being cornered once more.

As I was cornered, not four days after he left.

Cornered and explained how, years ago, he beat a Roman soldier to a pulp for threatening one of the younger knights, they think. He was lashed fifty times, and survived, barely. Most think this is what turned him.

Dangerous. Vengeful.

Could kill a woman if provoked, my cornerer hissed, as a warning. I shook my head in vain. They do not know him at all. How could they, they cannot even approach him! How can you understand a man you are too afraid to speak with, to learn about?

Truly I ask myself that question, when I think that I have yet to do the same. But... our game has shown me more of him than they will ever know, or would care to find out. I have seen the man, in our wordless conversations over tavern tables and apples on doorsteps.

And in the gift now around my neck.

I resent their idle talk turning tongues into swords, slaying any chance of a normal existence here for him. He is already doomed, this man, to them. I want to scream and yell at all of them. But hold my tongue. I do not need to kindle the flames of the rumour about my own sanity being gone any further than already being spoken.

I remembered that day he was beaten. I was there.

When recounted the tale, I kept composure long enough to watch the old woman leave back to her duties, then sat to cover my mouth, the images flooding me, making a connection between my childhood memory and my adult knowledge. What to make of it, I wound my hands around my body and rocked.

Sense, I needed sense of this now. Only he could provide it, and yet he is gone.

It was overwhelming to think that he, the one I desire, long to know, to touch, to feel, was that boy, the one I watched lashed for simply being honorable so many years ago.

I was young, just a girl, not ten summers. I can still see all the blood when the boy tied to the post was carried away by his companions. Limp, toes dragging in the dirt, the blood smeared across his back making drip marks alongside his body, patterns pooling if they had to stop and adjust their grip on his arms, the only place left to hold him save his feet. Gashes covered him from top of his shoulders to his ankles. Red, open, oozing life.

His head hung, hair covering his face, lolling from side to side, like one of the dolls my mother would sew from last year's clothing's in the Spring, and I would carry until they fell apart in the harvest season. Never once did I see his eyes, or his face. I would not have recognized him from any other soldier's body, had he presented himself to me for healing in the long years since.

Which he never did.

I thought, as they carried him away, that the boy was dead, and they would prepare him for bur­ial.

I remember following the trail his toes left, my young curiosity at the matters of soldiers spur­ring me forward. Following, watching the stops and stutters in the patterns, noticing that the boot tracks on either side were large, hobnailed, but strangely well-worn across the ball of the foot. The furrows wound in and out as the men had carried him haphazardly along the alley­ways. The tracks ended at the infirmary door, which was closed, more blood pooling across the threshold, on the door handle, on the door frame.

I heard the wails, and screams, and knew then that he was indeed alive. My young mind couldn't comprehend just what was happening.

Until the shouting.

I feel the panic in my breast even now as I remember hiding, seeing more men burst forth from the door. Young men, barely able to sprout a beard, arguing. Screaming at one another, their faces red, chests butting, dust scuffling from their boots. One of them gesturing, eyes blazing. The other, grim-faced, arms crossed...

At an impasse, this passion meeting duty. A large stone wall indeed. Even my young mind could see the desperation in their eyes, for different reasons, but same end. My father had shared that same look so many times, before he had come home with them closed forever.

I was struck dumb by these soldiers, their ferocity. Angry yet powerless. So strong of body, their muscles corded and sculpted, even then. Later I knew they were young themselves, barely fif­teen summers. Children thrown into an adult world too soon to prepare their souls properly.

Young men helpless to stand up to whom they were being punished by, for no wrong doing de­spite.

I wanted to help, I remember then, the compulsion hitting my chest. His pain-filled screams made me feel wretched, and useless, and I cried, the tears coursing down my cheeks like tiny rivers as both screams and shouting continued unabated.

I stayed hidden. What would they think, a scrawny girl-child sniffling in the corner, but a nui­sance? The two men arguing were also quite fearsome in stature for one so young.

That lashing has haunted me since that day, and was the reason I became what I am, what I do. With each soldier I helped, it was him I was calming, the wails and screams subsiding each time I shepherded a helpless man through pain and injury.

I am brought back to the present, on the wall, as the watchmen ready the torches for nightfall, their steps echoing on the walkway, the clacking of the wood and oil soaked cloth being pressed into iron rings. They nod, my presence familiar now.

So many memories I have revisited with his absence. So many connections I have drawn to him. I place my hands on the stone, feeling the coldness under my palms, stretching well used fingers out straight, hearing them crack from the over use I have put them through in this long waiting.

I wonder, as I again slip into thought, if he has many scars from that beating. I think of if given the chance, would I be able to run my fingers over them, absorb their hurt into me, absolve him of the wrongdoing he had not done?

Cleanse myself of the haunting memory, now tied to my silent watcher.

He is so much more to me now than my silent watcher. So much more than the desire in my heart, and loins. The connection I have to him now is deeper. Perhaps I was drawn to him, some­how knowing. Perhaps that is why I yearn to show him comfort, and peace.

Perhaps that is why I watch him in the taverns.

So this night, as I wait for him atop the wall, my mind now wanders to this. The apple is in my skirts pocket, as always. Was this a foretold happening, or simply chance that he would be the same boy, now man? It is a small fort, it could be chance.

My heart is telling me otherwise, and confusing my head. I reach in, and pull out the apple, run­ning my thumb over the green and red skin, holding it. Do I love him? Could I love him? Could he love me? The gossip echoes in my head once more. Would he be capable of letting me show him love?

Such questions I must stop or indeed I will go mad! I shake my head and fist the apple, intending to throw it in the frustration bubbling up at my incessant doubting questions. But I stop, arm in the air, apple poised to take flight above me.

Suddenly, it matters not.

The pondering of the past month stills in my heart. I am shaking, and it is not cold. I cannot take breath, and it has crushed me from the inside out.

I want to love him. I am drawn to this idea.

The sun is sinking slowly, the birds are roosting. I can hear crickets slowly beginning their song of the evening, bringing forth their sound to fill the void the breeze leaves as the pennants sud­denly fold flat against their poles.

A sudden stillness, a sudden realization, all but forgotten as I take in the sight before me, in the dimming twilight. I can hear the sound of voices... hoofbeats...

Horses.

They are home.

* * *

**Dear Reader:**

I can no longer respond to your reviews here in my stories, and for that I am truly saddened. I always enjoyed sharing others thoughts with everyone who read my stories, and I feel that some of the collaborative environmentin this writing medium is now gone.

But! No matter. We can still enjoy each others work, and respond to it in other ways. I cherish your reviews, and despite my lack of updates in the past month, want each and every one of you to know that you have moved my pen this past month despite.

I look forward to your thoughts on where I have taken my female character in this, and her memory serving to bring more depth to her feelings for our Tristan. I always encourage your input. Where will this game go now? What should she do? What will happen when he is again inside the walls?

Thank you for your patience, and for reading.

_Cardeia_


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